Oh Lazarus
by MyraRain223
Summary: Takes place in the Young Justice universe. Jason Todd has been resurrected by some miracle (or curse) according to comic lore. The Bats find themselves scrambling to help, all while investigating exactly how their prodigal son and brother has returned. No slash, just angst, hurt/comfort, and even some fluff in later chapters. May add more chapters depending on reviews. Rated T-M.
1. Chapter 1

**Ummm… so, I started watching Young Justice again. I heard about the new season and I'm super excited because it looks like we will be getting Damian and Spoiler. Which will be awesome. But Jason needs to be in it too so… yeah, plot bunnies. This takes place on July 4, just as the Reach is being kicked out of Earth Space – because I assume they had a lot of ships with a lot of kids being experimented on so, yeah. Ages? Dick is 19, Jason is 15 (since he was dead for a while), and Tim should be about 12-13. Bruce is Bruce-aged. Do not have a Beta so please excuse any grammatical errors or spelling errors, if you see any let me know and I'll fix them. (^_^")**

 **Chapter 1: Lazarus**

Barbara sighed as she moved from one pod to the next, slowly making her way down a line of kidnapped children all while dispensing the rehearsed "You are okay, things will be fine, we need you to remain calm and get checked out by our doctors…"

It had been a long night. The reach was officially being forced off of Earth with the caveat that all the kidnapped children would be returned at once. The League could take their time with this now. There was no need to question the children beyond finding out who they were and where they had come from, still with the threat ended their actions did not need to be so desperate. So here they were – rows of them, still trapped in pods and possibly having undergone unknown levels of torture at the hands of the aliens. Many of them had vacant looks in their eyes, reminiscent of POWs Barbara had seen pictures of in History class at Gotham Academy. She turned to see Wondergirl giving out the same speech, but Cassie glanced over meaningfully when she caught Barbara looking at her. She jumped a little as a firework went off over the bay, the bang reverberating through her and making several of the children jump in fear.

Barbara moved on to the next pod.

Inside, there was a boy in a red hoodie. His dark hair was matted with sweat and what looked to be blood. Dirt left a grimy film over everything and when Barbara moved to unlock the pod, a thin layer of grit rained out. The boy coughed and wheezed, leaning down and further obscuring his features. He looked to be no older than 14 or 15.

Barbara opened her mouth to give her rehearsed speech, only for the words to get caught in her throat. There was something oddly familiar about this boy. Something that reminded her of Dick or Tim. He was still coughing, and with tentative fingers, Barbara reached out to see if he was alright. Heat emanated from him.

Teal eyes peaked up at her, over-bright with fever and exhaustion, but absolutely unmistakable.

Barbara gasped, withdrawing her hand as though she'd touched a snake. The boy's eyes closed a moment later and he was falling forward, straight into her arms. For a moment, everything seemed frozen. A million thoughts ran through her mind and not one would slow down long enough for her to figure out what to do.

So, she screamed.

"Help!" She cried, as she slowly lowered the boy to the ground, still clutching him tightly. "Help!" She repeated. Cassie was with her in an instant, gasping loudly as she caught sight of who was on the ground. It confirmed Barbara's suspicions enough to bend over the boy, forehead-to-forehead.

A tear trickled down from behind Barbara's mask. "It's going to be alright, Jason. We've got you now."

Barbara had stayed with the boy all the way to the League's secure hospital. Inside, she waited with Jason as the medical team checked him out. He was given oxygen, anti-biotics, and an IV was placed through his skin. They removed his red hoody in the process, revealing a patchwork of purple and blue bruising that made Barbara sick. His hands are torn to shreds, some fingers missing fingernails altogether. The doctor began cleaning and bandaging those hands immediately, cursing as he did so. Barbara fought the urge to be sick. Still, the boy hadn't opened his eyes again and she was almost grateful for it. She didn't think she could handle it right now.

"Oh, Jason…" She trailed off, realizing that she had a few calls to make.

She stood, patting the hand of the boy who had been like a younger brother to her, before stepping out of the room. She opened her phone and hit the speed dial.

Dick answered on the second ring. "Hey Babs, how's it going down there?" His voice wasn't exactly happy, but it was at least more enlightened than it had been since Wally's death.

She hated to ruin it.

"I need you and B to get to the League hospital ASAP."

He must have caught the quiver in her voice because there was a long pause on the other end. "What's going on, Barbara?"

A tear slid down into her mouth as she said, "Dick, it's…" She shook her head, "Just please hurry."

With that, she hung up and turned back to the room. Jason was still out of it, grimacing in his sleep and whimpering slightly. She made her way to the bed, placing a trembling hand to the boy's forehead. The whisper became louder.

"B…"

Barbara's eyes widened.

"My dad…"

"Please…"

Barbara swallowed thickly. She turned to the nurse in the room, who was still fiddling with Jason's IV. "I need you to get a blood sample for me. We need to run DNA."

Though she knew who this was, had felt it in her heart, she knew Bruce would need to be sure. She gently laid a kiss to the boy's forehead and then left the room with the vial of blood the nurse handed her.

Dick Grayson, still in the guise of Nightwing, leaned back against a large white column, waiting rather impatiently for Bruce to finish speaking with the other Leaguers. Aqualad began handing out instructions soon thereafter and Dick would have smiled proudly at the team if not for the heavy weight in his heart. He gestured for Bruce, and his mentor responded immediately, coming to stand beside Dick.

"What's wrong? I would have thought you'd be with your team by now," Bruce said, smiling slightly despite Dick's grim demeaner.

"Barbara called. Something's happened on Earth," Dick said quietly.

Bruce's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. "Was there a problem with the pods?" The older man was already looking over to Superman, ready to call out should that be the case, but Dick shook his head.

"She didn't say, only that we needed to get down there as soon as possible. She… sounded like she'd seen a ghost." His voice trembled ever so slightly at the memory and he clenched his fist.

Batman stared at his protégé for a long period of time, before blinking and nodding. Together they made their way to the Zeta Tubes, determined to head off any danger to their family.

It took a few minutes to regain their bearings before Batman and Nightwing were moving down the pristine white hallway toward the command center of the League-controlled hospital. Barbara was there, typing away at a computer when they arrived. She looked paler than she should be, and her mask was drawn back revealing worried blue eyes and hair red as mahogany. Bruce narrowed his eyes at her, placing two hands on the counter before the computer.

There was a beeping from the computer and Barbara gasped lightly, only then bringing her eyes up to meet with Dick and Bruce.

"What's going on, Babs?" Dick asked quietly, leaning forward to try to glimpse the computer screen. She moved it away, not quite willing to share the details of her findings just yet. The printer behind her started spitting paper, and she grabbed the sheets before either of them could take a look.

"Babs, you're really starting to worry me here," Dick said, laughing nervously.

She looked at him them, really looked at him, and the smile dropped from Dick's face. Her eyes were glistening with fresh tears and her mouth set sternly. He hadn't seen her with that look in years, not since –

But his mind refused to go there. Refused to conjure the ghost of Jason Todd when there was something so wrong with Barbara.

"Barbara. What's happened." It was Bruce now, his voice full of the Bat with little of his daily persona. It was imposing, imperious, and difficult to leave unacknowledged, but Barbara simply turned away with a gesture for them to follow.

"I…" She started when they had turned down two separate corridors. "I found someone while I was searching the pods. I didn't think it was possible, but the DNA results have just come back and…" She stopped before a door so abruptly that Bruce and Dick almost ran straight into her. She glanced up at Bruce, eyes still sparkling in the fluorescent lighting.

And then she opened the door.

There was a boy inside. A familiar boy. White sheets were pulled up to his chest, but the bruising beneath was harshly evident in the lighting. There was dirt that had been methodically wiped away from his face by the nurse, but even with the grime there was no mistaking the boy's identity. The child twisted this was and that, whimpering softly and repeating the name "Bruce" and "Dad" over and over with little coherence.

Bruce stumbled as though he'd been struck by Superman. He would have fallen to his knees if not for Dick's arm moving to catch him in the last moment.

Barbara was already moving to the bed, resting gentle fingers against the boy's brow and whispering softly in his ear. She turned to Bruce, handing him the papers she'd had clutched under her arm. "He's a perfect match. I've got fingerprints running, but preliminary analysis gives a positive ID as well."

"How?" Bruce said, but his voice was so strangled and dark that the word barely made it out.

Barbara shook her head. "I don't know. He was in one of the pods. He hasn't said much beyond your name, and he hasn't been awake long enough for anyone to question him."

"Is he…"

"He's got a high fever and he's been through hell –" she turned for confirmation from the nurse, who nodded as she finished wiping the boy's face with cool water. "He's got bruising over 70 percent of his body and there's evidence that his bones have been broken in several places, his hands are torn torn to shreds, but…" She paused, turning back to the child before her, "He's alive."

Bruce stumbled forward, reaching the opposite side of the bed as the nurse vacated the area and left them alone in the room. His eyes searched the boy, up and down, noting small scars that the boy from his memory and this one shared impossibly. His eyes stopped when they came to the bandaged hands, some blood showing through, before continuing up. He reached a hand out, trembling so badly that he could barely leave it to rest on the boy's forehead. "Jason?" He said.

The boy's brow furrowed, but then he moved, leaning into his father's hand and squinting hard as he opened pale green-blue eyes.

And then started screaming.

 **A/N: well… here it is. Might add more chapters depending on reviewer turnout. 3**


	2. Proof

**A/N: Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers! I now have a story semi-mapped out and this story will be continuing… so buckle up! It's going to be a doozy.**

 **Chapter 2: Proof**

It had taken a whopping three hours to complete all the preparations and get Jason moved to Leslie's clinic. Bruce had remained in the guise of Batman throughout it all. Anyone who tried to counter his decision to move the boy was met with a stern glare and a terse, "This is family business."

Jason, for his part, had not woken again after screaming his throat raw. The look of absolute terror on the boy's face still left Bruce shivering in a way that Batman definitely _should not_. Though Jason had been too weak to maintain that fear and had passed out almost immediately in a fit of fever and broken things, Bruce still found his mind wandering back to that moment, his whole body rigid with emotion. There was so much to do, so much to research, so much to _learn_ , that Bruce threw himself into the work rather than face the fragile fourteen – fifteen now! – year old who cried at the sight of him, yet called out for him constantly. Barbara had said it was the cowl, had reminded him of how they had found Jason when the Joker had –

 _Don't go there, Bruce._

His mind spat horrible images back at him, sent him a swirl of pain and grief so harsh that he had to grasp the counter of the nurse's station to steady himself. He could feel the boy's weight in his arms, could feel the squishy blood at his boots. Could see Jason's face, limp and flat with death.

Bruce closed his eyes, rubbing the heel of his palm over the shadow beginning to form on his jaw.

"B?" Bruce looked up to see Barbara approaching him. She was out of the Batgirl persona now, fully dressed as Barbara Gordon. Her eyes were tight with worry and she placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. She'd been calling his name for a full minute now, and he hadn't even noticed.

"I'm here," He replied mechanically.

"They're about to move him. Do you want to go in the ambulance with us?"

He shook his head, almost too quickly, and Barbara narrowed her eyes.

"I want to get to Gotham, make sure everything is set for his arrival. And I need to… change." Her eyes drifted downward, coming to stop on the bat symbol emblazoned on his chest.

"That's probably for the best. Dick and I will stay with him in the meantime."

"I've already got Alfred running tests, we'll find out more once we are all back in Gotham."

She hummed in affirmation, turning to glance down the hall, where the nurses and doctors had turned the corner with Jason on a gurney. He was a mess of bruises and tubes, but his face was unmistakable. The sight had his heart beating uncomfortably against his chest.

"B, I've got to say something before we go."

He didn't take his eyes off the boy being wheeled out. "What's that?"

She swallowed. "Whatever this is, miracle or curse, he's going to need you. He needs his father, not a vigilante." She gave him a pointed look before turning away and striding over to join Dick at the double doors leading to the ambulance that would take them away.

Dick, for his part, was handling this far better than his father-figure. He had changed into civvies almost immediately and hadn't left the boy's side since his discovery. Whatever else Dick Grayson may be, he was most assuredly a devoted brother. Dick gave Bruce an impromptu salute before turning to say something to Barbara.

Bruce held out a hand for the gurney to stop, just as it was about to pass him. He leaned over the boy who had been his second son and planted a kiss on his forehead, asking the nurses to remain only a minute longer to run gentle fingers through the boy's wavy hair. It was so surreal, like a dream that could shatter at any moment. Bruce didn't want to take his eyes off of him. But the part of him that was Batman demanded he be sure first, that he protect his heart and keep a level head. Batman demanded proof. Bruce Wayne already had it.

And then Jason was gone, out the door and into the ambulance with the two people that the boy had considered his siblings in a past life.

Bruce's hand went up to run his fingers through his own hair before he remembered that the cowl was in the way. His hand dropped, coming to rest awkwardly at his side. Then, he was moving.

He had a list of things to do and only three hours to do them in.

Alfred Pennyworth had seen and done things in the past twenty years that he'd never thought he'd do. Being the guardian to a man who now dressed as a bat and ran around protecting the city had been a surprise, though he'd kept his post with complete confidence in his charge. Bruce had always had a habit of collecting strays, had done it all throughout his boyhood, right up until the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne – then the boy had changed, irrevocably – and the strays stopped coming into the house. Bruce, who had loved life and worked to ensure others did too, had been forcibly changed.

That was, until he'd found Dick.

Alfred had become a grandfather almost overnight, to a boy who had needed that figure. Dick Grayson had been kind, a generally happy child with a carefree attitude and a ready smile. Alfred had bonded with the boy, helping to raise him and guide him, even when Bruce could not. He had offered gentle reminders to Bruce, subtle parenting advice that usually landed on the mark, even if the billionaire could be as stubborn as a mule at times.

Dick had not needed much in the way of guidance, anyway. Sure, he'd wanted help sometimes, needing a father-figure to just _be_ , rather than a mentor, but Bruce had always strived to be at least that. At least a mentor, even if he feared taking the place of Dick Grayson's biological parents.

Then Jason had come. He'd been a spitfire, all raw emotion and _need_. This stray had been the most broken of all, dark and dangerous, but full of untapped potential. Alfred had noticed another change in his ward: this one completely paternal in nature.

It had been small things, at first. Little changes in behavior that meant Bruce took a night off occasionally. He'd rarely done so with Dick except for cases of sickness. But with Jason, Bruce had tried. He'd stayed awake watching Star Wars, spent the night working with Jason on a school report, or even just quelling the fears of a boy with too much trauma for one so young. Jason had been the first to call Bruce "Dad," and that had had a profound effect on the man. The word had been used sparingly, with neither the man nor the boy having had any good experience being a father nor having one, respectively.

Still, Bruce had tried.

Alfred for his part had played the role of confidant and, at times, even a grandfather in the life of Jason Todd. Jason Todd, who loved nothing more than to prank with other members of the household. At one point, the boy had slipped nair into the shampoo of his elder brother, laughing hysterically when Nightwing, who had just returned from a grueling eight-hour patrol had gone to the showers only to return completely hairless and bleary-eyed, without even realizing until that moment that his hair was gone.

Yes, Jason had been a handful.

But he'd also brought immeasurable joy to the aging butler's family.

And then he'd been taken from them.

When Bruce had returned from Quran, Alfred had known something was wrong. Bruce had been quiet, had barely even acknowledged Alfred. And then, Alfred had seen the coffin. The coffin that had been far too small. In the months to follow, Bruce had come home later (or earlier) each day, had come home with more bruises, more cuts, more broken bones than he had ever had before. Alfred had been there for his adoptive son, had supported and consoled him, even when the younger man refused to allow it. He had seen how a rift had opened between Bruce and Superman, had known it was about the Joker – who had mysteriously disappeared just afterward. And Alfred, the Wayne family butler, oldest friend and father-figure, had watched as Bruce Wayne got completely wasted for the first time since he was a teenager. And Alfred had been there to clean up the pieces, even when Dick had left in anger and grief,

"This is all your fault!" Dick had screamed. And Bruce, in his grief and shame, had not said anything in return, had just swallowed his weight in brandy.

It hadn't been until hours later, when Alfred had loosened the bottle from Bruce's fingers, that Bruce looked into his father-figure's eyes and said, "It was my fault. My son. Jason…"

And Bruce had cried for the first time since his parents had died. Had sobbed into Alfred's shoulder until he was too exhausted to do it anymore. And Alfred had led the younger man to his room, put him to bed, and then gone to clean up the mess downstairs.

Now, Alfred stared at the screen of the Batcomputer with that moment on repeat in his mind. The DNA analysis, fingerprint analysis, and blood marker test were all under fifty percent completion.

" _I need your help, Alfred."_ Bruce had said.

" _It's Jason."_ He'd said, impossibly.

At first, he had thought that Bruce had been lost to his grief in a way he hadn't been for over a year. But Bruce had sent him the materials, Dick had called to confirm, and Alfred had started the tests. He stood abruptly, finding that his stomach was churning uncomfortably. He glanced over at the glass display case, the one that still held Jason's old uniform. The one that said "Jason Todd, A Good Soldier."

Alfred ran a hand over the engraved words.

And then removed the plaque.

 **Hope y'all enjoyed, please drop a review if you noticed any errors! Or if you just liked it!**


	3. Family Business

**A/N: So, this story has completely taken over my life. Go figure. And yes, I'll still be releasing All in the Blood on time, this upcoming Tuesday at the latest, but right now I need to get some of this crazy out. Thank you to all the people who have reviewed so far, this story has gotten away from me a bit. BTW, some of you did point out my typo from last chapter in writing "Quran" instead of "Qurac," I haven't gotten around to fixing it on here because is a pain, but I should have it fixed before the next chapter is out. Thanks again!**

 **Happy reading!**

 **Chapter 3: Family Business**

Dick Grayson cringed inwardly as Jason was loaded onto the ambulance. His head was pounding in time with his heartbeat, but he still had so many things to do. He'd only just gotten off the phone with his grandfather-figure, and as he pocketed his phone, all he'd felt was drained. He was glad, a moment later, when Barbara had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her eyes weren't full of pity, like the doctors that surrounded his younger brother. They were full of the same emotions that Dick was feeling. He smiled at her.

"Thanks, Babs," He said in a small voice.

She nodded, climbing into the back of the ambulance just ahead of him.

Just then his pocket buzzed and Dick groaned.

[ _What's going on? – Tim_ ]

Dick's eyes widened as he read the message, and then read it again. He tilted the screen, showing Barbara and watching as she clasped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh God, I completely forgot about-" She hesitated, turning to glance at Jason on the gurney in front of them. "What are we even going to tell him about…"

Dick blanched when her words trailed off. He didn't need her to finish that sentence, he already knew. _How are we going to explain Tim to Jason, let alone Jason to Tim?_

Dick's headache had just turned into a full-blown migraine.

Jason had been volatile at best, vengeful at worst. Dick knew without even looking at the boy how he would feel. _Replaced. Forgotten. Angry_. But no matter how he framed it in his head, he couldn't make himself feel badly about Tim. Tim was a good kid, and he'd come along and saved their father's life – there was no doubt about that. Bruce had been spiraling out of control after Jason had… had…

Dick's mind took him back to just after the funeral.

When he'd entered the cave, expecting to just _be there_ for his father-figure, to put aside the miles of shit between them, and grieve openly and honestly together. Instead, Bruce had punched him, nearly broken his jaw, and screamed _"Why did I think I needed a partner,"_ had placed blame everywhere but on himself, only to break down later that evening in a flurry of alcohol and bereavement. Then, it had been Dick to punch the older man. To blame him for Jason's death, even though they both knew they each carried some of that guilt, right alongside the man who had killed Jason.

But Bruce had been the one to cross that line. Bruce had hunted the Joker down. Had punched _the goddamn Superman_ , and _allowed_ Joker's helicopter to go down, had even screamed for the Justice League to allow him to drown if it meant ensuring that pasty-faced freak was dead. And the Joker, for all his death-defying stunts, had yet to resurface. Indeed, at the meeting with the Light, Joker and his Injustice League had not been present, and even Kaldur noted that fact in his reports – all while casting a wary glance in Batman's direction. Now, with Jason's ungodly return, Dick found himself worrying about it all.

His phone vibrated again in his palm, startling him out of his thoughts.

[ _Dick? Babs and Bruce aren't answering their phones. – Tim_ ]

Dick glanced at Barbara, who read the text and then shuffled through her pockets to find her cell phone. She tapped the home button, only for the screen to light up with a battery signal. "Dead," she said.

Dick pulled his phone back into his lap, typing away at the keys.

[ _I'm with Babs, her phone's dead. Will fill you in once we get stopped, bit of a family emergency. – Dick_ ]

There was a moment of pause, a bit longer than it should have taken to get a response from Tim, the boy who was constantly typing away at _something_.

[ _Am I not included? – Tim_ ]

And then, [ _heading to the cave – Tim_ ]

Dick groaned at the sight of the text, sharing it with Barbara immediately. She nodded after pausing to read it. "You should call Bruce," She said quietly.

But Dick Grayson, for all of his perks and flaws, still had some things he refused to do. And to talk on the phone with his father-figure was one of them. So, he sent a text instead. A one-word text that was sure to leave Bruce anxious and wrecked because he would be the one that would deal with the fallout. And Dick didn't even care. He sent the message and then reached out to grasp Jason's hand in his.

No way was he leaving his little brother alone for even a minute. No matter how many dirty looks Babs sent his way.

[ _Tim. – Dick_ ]

It was a one-word text that followed a string of such texts from Tim himself, all of which Bruce had been pointedly ignoring in favor of his work. His work, being digging up a grave. Clark Kent was at his side, had already confirmed that the coffin was empty, that it had a gaping hole in the front end of it, but Bruce had to know for himself. So, he pocketed the phone, just as he had done each and every time it buzzed and _wasn't_ about the boy who could be Jason Todd. Bruce kept digging.

"You know I could just dig this up in two seconds flat, right?" His friend asked, a bit unnecessarily.

"You know you could destroy evidence, right?" Bruce returned sardonically.

The big, blue boy scout shrugged. Bruce kept digging.

Finally, he hit solid wood with a _plunk_. Bruce breathed out, not completely sure he was ready for what he would find within.

"Are you okay?"

God, no. He wasn't okay at all, and yet he was filled with happiness and hope in a way he hadn't been in over a year. Something about this gravesite made him shiver, even in the warmth that came just on the heels of winter. Even though he was here as Bruce Wayne, with his friend Clark Kent, it didn't mean that this was any less of a _grave_. A grave for his second son and a monument to the colossal failure that was wholly his. His mind was like a broken record, repeating the words " _my son, my son"_ over an over even as he leaned down to inspect the hole that Clark had mentioned.

Bruce ran a hand over the exposed wood, which had begun to rot with the contact to wet soil. He could feel jagged edges, but something else too. Pieces of fabric, handing loosely over the jagged edges where it must have rent through clothing and skin alike as something, _someone_ crawled out. Bruce kept running his fingers along the gap until he felt it.

A human fingernail.

Bruce picked the little piece up, noting the rends and tears that left the little thing jagged and mangled.

"There's nothing inside." He made it into a statement, not daring to beg the question.

"There's no one inside," Clark confirmed anyway.

"So, he dug his way out." Bruce said, voice suddenly breaking apart in a way he hadn't allowed all night. "My son woke up in his own coffin. He was scared and alone and he _dug himself out_ and I wasn't there to help him."

He didn't even realize that there were tears streaking down his dirt-smeared face until Clark rubbed at one awkwardly before moving to place a hand on his shoulder in silent support.

"He's alive, Clark."

"The tests?"

"All positive. And he's got injuries on his hands, his arms, consistent with…" He gestured to the coffin, to the fingernail, when words failed.

Clark moved then, grabbing Bruce in a bear's grip and holding him close. "I know it may not seem like a miracle right now, standing here in this graveyard, but… Congratulations, Bruce. It's a boy."

Bruce laughed, and the sound was so wrong, so raw, that he had to wince a little at it. He turned serious again after a moment. "How could this have happened, Clark?"

Clark shrugged, glancing down again. "I mean, it _is_ Gotham. Stranger things have happened. Worse things."

Bruce knew he was right, but it didn't stop the sudden wave of nausea. His son, the child he'd raised for four and a half years, had died and come back – all right under his nose. "You're right about one thing. It _is_ Gotham. And now I have to get to Leslie's ahead of…" He hesitated, tripped over the name, "ahead of Jason."

Clark nodded. "I can fly you there if you want."

But Bruce was already climbing out of the pit, shaking his head. "No. I need some time to think. About this. To call Tim and make sure my kids are alright." He paused, considering. "All of them."

When Tim finally made it into the cave, he felt an overwhelming sense that something was _wrong_. It was cold, but that was no different than normal. It was eerily quiet, but that was also normal. No, Tim couldn't quite place what seemed different until he was standing right in front of it. The plaque for Jason's memorial was gone. The one that venerated a fallen soldier of Batman without giving any inclination toward the son that Bruce Wayne had lost, had grieved. The cave felt strangely foreign without it, like _Tim_ was the one out of place here, not the inscription.

He shook himself, approaching the Batcomputer and reaching to boot up the system and manually track his makeshift family down.

But the computer was already on.

Tim gaped openly. The screen read impossible information. It had the bold words "MATCH" across two DNA fragments – one with the name Jason Todd under it and one with a simple question mark. But that couldn't be right. Jason Todd was dead. Tortured and beaten and blown up by the Joker almost a full year ago, now. Why would Bruce be running tests on his DNA now, after all this time? He turned abruptly, staring at the glass case with Jason Todd's old Robin uniform in it.

"Master Timothy? Is that you down there?" Alfred's voice drifted to him from somewhere up the stairs a moment before the old Butler's face ducked below the entry to the cave.

Tim gesticulated blindly, between the case, the computer, and then himself, completely lost for words.

Alfred stopped dead, staring at the screen for a moment himself.

And then, the old man was placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "It would appear that the powers that be have deigned to return our boy to us."

"Jason- he's alive? But how!" Tim was still flabbergasted, struggling to keep him mind on track.

Alfred shook his head, clearly as in the dark as he was. "Master Bruce has been running around gathering evidence all night. He's had me double and triple checking these tests for the past two hours. They always come up a perfect match."

"But _how_ , Alfred?" Tim asked again, a bit hysterical at this point. _How,_ and what did all of this mean for _him_?

"I do not know, Master Timothy." The words were quiet in a way that Alfred's voice never sounded. "All I know is that he is back and that he is very sick."

Just then, Tim's phone rang, loudly to the jingle of an old showtune Dick had jokingly set and Tim had never bothered to change. He checked the caller ID. It was Bruce.

Alfred raised one elegant brow and gave a sympathetic cough. "If I were you, Master Timothy, I would answer that."

Tim gulped audibly as the old Butler made his way back up the staircase.

"Hello?" He answered, wondering why it was that suddenly he couldn't breathe.

 **A/N: Well, chapter 3 down. Let me know if you liked it!**


	4. Waking World

**Hey Y'all. Here's another chapter of the YJ verse, and this one is all about Jason so get ready for a harsh flashback, warning for somewhat graphic mentions of abuse, because the Joker is evil AF. Next up, more bonding and reunions, but for now, enjoy some angst ~~**

 **Chapter 4: Waking World**

" _How we doing, pumpkin?" the voice echoed in the hollow air, making the boy shiver uncontrollably. The Joker took a step closer, leaning down so that his pasty white face was right in Jason's line of sight._

 _Jason choked, coughing past the blood in his mouth at the smell of the crazed man. Something about the pasty complexion, the way the Joker had been created, made him reek of death, like formaldehyde and cemeteries. It made Jason want to gag, but he'd already tried that number – and it hurt like hell, grinding against his broken ribs._

" _Nothing to say? How rude." The Joker laughed, standing to spin in a tight circle over the blood now coating the floor. "Don't worry Birdboy, I invited a friend to make sure you wouldn't feel lonely!"_

 _Just then the sound of heavy footfalls echoed across the warehouse. Jason was afraid to look, afraid to even move. But he'd seen it – the hush of a cape on the floor, black boots that looked a little off, but still oh so familiar._

 _Batman._

 _Jason struggled against the chains holding his hands behind his back, crying out weakly at the man –_

 _Only to be struck again by the damn crowbar._

 _Jason screamed, forcing his head back and crying weakly at the unfairness of it all. He cried out again, calling for Batman to come closer, to release him, to check on- Sheila… His mother was already dead, staring hollowly back at him from across the room, but Bruce could check maybe she was still alive, by some miracle. Hell, it was a miracle_ he _was even still alive._

 _But Batman ignored Sheila, coming to stand over Jason. His boots splashed wetly in the pool of crimson surrounding the boy._

 _Jason watched, through bleary eyes, as Joker handed the man the crowbar._

 _And Batman swung it at him._

 _Jason grunted with the impact. And then another came. And_ another _, until Jason was breathing blood. He gasped weakly, crying out "Br'c!" but the man didn't even hesitate and the blows just kept coming. Tears fell, and Jason choked back a sob as his shattered body trembled in between each hit. He knew logically that this could not be Bruce. Knew it for sure when the man spoke, whispering that he'd never loved Jason, that Jason was a liability, that he'd done this to himself and_ deserved _every single hit._

 _But knowing it couldn't be Bruce didn't seem to matter to his fractured psyche._

 _Jason cried, raggedly, spitting blood and the salt of tears whenever he gasped enough air to do so. He wanted nothing more than to see his father just then, not this dark visage, not the Batman, but Bruce Wayne. He wanted to say he was sorry. Wanted to chat with Alfred one last time. Wanted to tell Dick he didn't_ actually _hate him. Instead, he was in a world of pain, alone and forgotten, being beaten by a man dressed as the father-figure and mentor he'd never even gotten the chance to call "dad"._

 _The Joker was laughing in the background, deep gulping chuckles that made Jason's whole body shudder as the ragged words of the Not-Batman dug into his brain._

" _Worthless."_

" _Worm."_

" _Weak."_

 _Jason closed his eyes, wishing without hope that Joker would just end it already._

 _And then, just as abruptly as it had happened, it stopped. Jason's eyes opened to an empty warehouse, and Jason had no idea how long it had been since the blows had stopped._

 _He only knew that there was a faint beeping in the air, and a cold weight settled into his stomach. Jason gasped working his hands over his feet to bring them up to his chest and then pulling himself off the ground a half meter. Everything hurt, breathing hurt. But he had to make it to the door. He had to survive, even this. So, Jason moved. He worked his way up to stand, reveling in his ability for all of two seconds before he landed straight back on his face. The beeping was loud in his ears, and Jason turned to see a bomb wired up to C-4. Jason glanced at his hands, where most of the fingers were bloodied or broken. He wouldn't be able to disarm it, even if he could crawl his way over to it._

 _Only one minute left on the counter._

 _Jason spat angrily and began to slink forward, maneuvering himself like an earthworm._

 _Fifty seconds._

 _Jason gasped as his muscles twanged with pain and exhaustion._

 _Forty seconds._

 _He was so_ close.

 _Thirty seconds._

 _Jason made it to the door, knowing that there was a trail of blood in his wake._

 _Twenty seconds._

 _Jason tried the door handle. It was locked, and Jason put all his weight into pulling the damn thing, no matter that his ribs screamed in protest._

 _Ten seconds._

 _Jason sat back against the door, his eyes closing, thinking of Bruce one last time. Of Alfred. Of Dick. Of Barbara. And he cried ragged, deep sobs at the loss._

 _Zero._

 _His body was torn apart by the explosion, rending what was left of his internal organs._

 _And then, Jason's world became a shroud of black smoke and the glare of death._

For the last few weeks, there had been a blood-red tinge to everything. The waking world was no different from the frightening world of his dreamscape, a never-ending torture of alternating monotony and pain. Sometimes, he could see what happened to him, and the dreams took on the quality of a warehouse – laughter, the ringing of metal flying through the air only to land with a sickening _thump_ , the foggy outline of a man in a bat suit beating him, pain, pain, _pain_. And then he would wake to the hell of being trapped in a coffin, first dark and dirty and _terrifying_ , and then a bright red coffin with shocks of electricity arching through him. In all that time, Jason Todd had lost pieces of himself.

Fear was a constant, and the body could only survive for so long with that much stress. Bruce had made Jason learn about the body, about the brain and how fear worked in the shorthand. But Jason had needed more, had searched the books for information on the how and why, trying desperately to explain his own reactions (or, more aptly, his _over_ reactions) after his time on the streets.

It started with the introduction of a stressor – which could be anything external that threw the body out of allostatic balance. Allostasis was kind of like a measure, asking what was an appropriate reaction to something as mundane as being woken from sleep to bungie-jumping. When the body reacts to stress, it goes through three stages: alarm, resistance, and finally exhaustion. There was something called cortisol, a stress hormone that could prepare the body to react to fear, sort of like adrenaline, but longer lasting. Cortisol could be good in the short-term, aiding a person in escaping from what they fear (these were the alarm and resistance phases). But the stress hormone, when in the bloodstream for longer periods of time, produce exhaustion – the immune system isn't in hyperdrive anymore, meaning you'll get sick if you're not careful. Take that system even further and you compromise even more systems. All-in-all it was like a muscle in the brain. Like lifting a weight, you can only hold the extra pounds for so long before the muscle will no longer respond and drop the weight. In the aftermath of dropping it, the muscle will hurt, sometimes for days afterward. Now picture that immediately after dropping it, you go to pick it up again. And again.

A lot of it had to do with the control a person had over the stressor – can you walk away vs. are you trapped?

Jason, for the last two months, had been in the latter category. He'd been sick almost constantly with fever and chills, though he couldn't be sure if that was due to the stress response or actual exposure to a virus. But waking to a constant nightmare? Being isolated, forgotten, _hurt_? It was agony. He had the vaguest idea that his pain had ended, that the soreness and bleeding had slowed to dull aching. But when he'd finally garnered the strength to open his eyes, he'd seen a man in a bat suit – just like that day with the Joker – and screamed for all he'd been worth.

His body and mind had relapsed, fleeing to the furthest reaches and cowering there.

It was dizzying, not knowing what was real. But still, he called for his father. Not Willis Todd, but Bruce Wayne. He had so much left to say to the man, so much he needed to talk to him about. Maybe not even to talk, but to be held by someone like his mother used to. He'd missed that the most in all this time: the simple pleasure of another person's touch. Humans were social creatures and the lack of contact had made Jason withdrawn. It was worse than the physical pain and illness. It affected his mind and made him tremble with anxiety.

Still, he didn't want to risk opening his eyes, not if he would wake to another nightmare. Of Batman standing over him, whispering that he was worthless or beating him with the echo of a madman in the background. Still, he could hear voices outside of himself and, for once, they weren't the awkward clatter of an alien language, but the familiar voices of people that Jason used to know.

"He going to be…"

"Very high fever… Don't know how he's still…"

"…Bruce?"

The last word, more than any of the words before, made Jason's brow furrow. He wanted to open his eyes, but he was still so afraid. What would be waiting for him? Another nightmare? Another Bat waiting to beat him? The Joker and the godawful smell of death?

He felt a hand on his forehead and his immediate reaction was to shrink away, to avoid a blow. But the touch was gentle, moving to card fingers through Jason's hair. It was soothing, calming, and after a moment Jason moved toward it, seeking out the comfort it brought.

"Jason?" He knew that voice. Knew it as well as his own, had yearned for it in his dreams just before they turned into nightmares.

Jason opened his eyes, squinting at the harsh light above him before finally coming to rest on the man he'd been waiting for.

Bruce Wayne. His father.

Bruce, for his part, looked like shit. His hair was a tangled mess and there were smudges of dirt on his cheeks, but it was _him_. Jason gasped lightly, wincing at the pain in his chest as he did so. Bruce was growing blurry and it took Jason a minute to realize that he was crying. It didn't make sense, Jason shouldn't be crying when his heart felt lighter than it had in months. His eyes should not be streaming when this had been his dream since the day he'd choked on black smoke. But he was, and Bruce reached forward to wipe at the droplets, likely smearing dirt in the process.

"Dad?" Jason asked, though his voice sounded so foreign to his own ears that he wasn't even sure that the words made sense.

But Bruce just smiled, his hand still resting on Jason's cheek feathering his thumb over the skin there. "I'm here, Jay."

And Jason didn't know why, but the confirmation had him crying harder. Broken, ragged sobs broke loose from his throat and he curled his body toward Bruce, seeking shelter from the raging storm in his head. And Bruce was _there_ , tugging Jason close, pressing the boy's face into the hollow of his throat, fingers splayed in the boy's hair, whispering soft assurances that he wasn't leaving. Whatever he'd been using to plug up the aching hole in his chest had been blown away and he was going to be carried away with the floodwaters. But Bruce was still there, still holding him steady and firm, like the waters couldn't touch either of them. Everything hurt, but Jason didn't care. He'd been waiting for his father to come for so, so long and now that he was finally here – Jason gasped.

There was something he needed to say, something he needed desperately to know.

"I-I'm Sorry!" Jason choked out, "A-Are. You. Ang'y?" It took him several harsh breaths to get the words out, but once they were Bruce froze, tensing every muscle.

Jason thought that was a bad sign, that _of course_ he was angry with Jason, he'd been the one to screw up. He _had_ deserved what happened and he deserved to be washed away by the flood of emotion rocking through him. He had _,_ _he had –_

"God, no!" Bruce pulled away, and Jason whimpered pathetically at the loss of contact. But suddenly, Bruce was back, holding him tighter than before, like he was as afraid that Jason might disappear as Jason was of Bruce disappearing. "God, no, son."

It wasn't until much later, when Jason was starting to slip back into unconsciousness, that he realized his father's shoulders had been shaking too.

 **A/N: Please review! I love them :)**


	5. We're Still in Mourning

**So, no Jason and Bruce in this chapter, mainly because I had to get some of the other folks in. But Alfred, Bruce, and Jay will be in the next one soooooo, there. Hope you all enjoy.**

 **I needed some big brother Dick in here, because even though they aren't exactly traumatized, Jason's return is going to affect everyone.**

 **Chapter 5: We're Still in Mourning**

"Hey Dick." A voice said from the darkness, and Dick jumped about five feet when he heard it.

"God, Tim! I know you're training to be a bat, but seriously, _come on_." He said, a little harsher than he'd intended.

In the last twenty-four hours since finding Jason, Dick had only managed about four hours of sleep, and that only because Bruce had taken over the boy's hospital room. Jason had woken intermittently, always with the same name on his tongue, always calling for his father. It wasn't wrong of Dick to feel jealous of his own father, was it?

In any case, when Dick had arrived back at the manor, he'd been absolutely drained. The feeling of joy had quickly dipped into the grief of the past year and Dick found himself trapped in never-ending memories. Trapped in his failure to protect his younger brother. No wonder Jason didn't care to see him. Dick had been so sure, so happy with his decision to leave Robin behind, to leave _Bruce_ behind, really, that he hadn't even taken the time to make sure the newest addition to the family had the tools he'd needed to survive. That burden weighed just as heavily on him as it had on Bruce, putting even more strain on an already bent and broken relationship.

Dick sighed and looked around, noting the archaic details of the Wayne family office – details that had rarely, if ever, been changed.

Bruce had been so young when he had come into his fortune, but nevertheless he had worked to put his personal touch on nearly every part of the manor. Usually that meant adding a bit of Gothic architecture or updated fixtures. Not this room, though. This room was one that still belonged solely to Thomas Wayne. It was nothing outright, nothing that a passerby would take notice of, but Dick had seen Bruce look out of place before, and it rarely happened anywhere else. One would think that the room would offer sanctum to any and all who came through it, with the walls lined with books and the large windows overlooking the garden beyond. It was a comfortable room, with comfortable couches and an imposing mahogany desk. Dick could clearly recall his father-figure standing behind that desk, studying a glass paperweight with the initials TW inside and had felt extraordinarily like he was intruding on something intensely private. It was the one and only place that Bruce could go to feel his grief, by surrounding himself in an office that didn't _really_ belong to him.

Dick could relate. Going back to Haley's Circus for the first time since his parents had died felt like an enormous intrusion. Going up on that trapeze had been a transgression against his father and mother's memory. But the ghost of Mary and John Grayson could not haunt him forever, and eventually he'd forced himself to make that first leap. Looking back, he wondered if maybe Bruce, who had always been so wise and intelligent, had never managed to do the same. It made Dick's heart constrict painfully at the thought.

"Hello? Earth to Dick?" Tim's hand waved in front of his face and Dick shook his head to rid it of his whirling thoughts.

"Eh, yeah. Sorry." Dick said, moving to sit beside the younger boy. "Did you say something?"

"I asked how you were doing, but I think you already answered that with your vacant stare." the boy shined him his trademark smart-aleck grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Sorry, Timmy. I've just got a lot on my mind and not enough sleep to work any of it out."

Tim hummed at him, turning to poke at his shoes a bit awkwardly.

Dick rolled his eyes, wrapping an arm around the younger boy easily. That was one thing that had been so different between Jason and Tim – where Jason had always been hypervigilant and wary of anything physical, Tim seemed to thrive under it, much like Dick himself. It had been a weird switch, between the two, but over the past year, Dick had come to embrace it. He'd always loved giving and receiving hugs, and had been starved for affection under Bruce. Now, with Tim around, he'd been able to indulge a bit, offering comfort consistently to the younger boy who had quickly come to be a part of the family. He'd noticed right away that the boy liked the impromptu affection, having missed out on that with Tim's often neglectful parents.

The boy in question melted into his side, burying his head in the crook of Dick's neck.

"What are we going to do now, Dick?" He asked, his voice slightly muffled by Dick's t-shirt.

"What do you mean, buddy?"

The boy shrugged a bit. "Will I have to stop being Robin?" He shook his head before Dick could even think up a response. "No, that's the wrong question. Will Jason want to be Robin again, after…" He trailed off, snuggling in closer to Dick.

"I-I don't know," Dick replied honestly. He hadn't even thought about it, honestly. He should have, but he hadn't.

"I didn't even get to meet him before…" Another heavy silence followed as they both shifted uncomfortably.

"I know," Dick said simply.

"It's weird." Tim laughed humorlessly. "I've spent all my time as Robin living under this kid's shadow, but now he's really _back_ and I don't even know how to deal with it."

"None of us do, Timmy." Dick ran his fingers through the boy's cropped black hair. "I think we're all just as lost as you."

Dick thought about that feeling, being lost. Wanting nothing more than to be comforted, even though something _good_ had happened. He wouldn't cry around Tim, wouldn't allow his own thoughts and jealousy rock through the boy who had become his youngest brother. He let go when Tim pulled away, wiping at his over bright eyes.

"I'm going to go to the cave. Bruce wanted me to stay away from the clinic for now. Said Jason wouldn't be able to handle it yet." He paused when Dick gave him a sour look.

"That's not fair to you, Timmy, and I'm sorry," Dick said.

Tim just shrugged, rubbing at his eyes in earnest now. "I'm going to work on bringing Jason back, legally. Get the papers ready and all that."

Dick made a face. "You shouldn't have to deal with that right now."

Tim shook his head. "I'm the only one out of all of you that's thinking clearly right now. It should be me." The boy made his way to the door before pausing to look back at Dick. "He can't be a non-entity forever."

"Hey, Timmy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm fine. We're fine. But _you_ ," Dick pointed at him, "Call me if you need me. I'll be there." The promise echoed one he'd made to Jason, but this time, Dick admitted to himself, he actually meant it.

Tim smiled a bit sadly, but nodded before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

Dick was already reaching into his pocket to call Wally about this whole mess when he remembered that there wasn't anyone to call. The grief hit him, strong and virulent, right in the gut. And Dick did cry then, letting the tears flow freely in Thomas Wayne's office. Because no matter how horrible it was, no matter that this was family and that Bruce was happier than he had been in over a year, Dick wished it had been Wally to come back. That his best friend had returned from the grave, not this boy he'd barely taken the time to know. He felt sick to himself at the thought, but he couldn't help it. He thought of Artemis, his team, his _friends_ , and how all he wanted was to see _them_ happy again, even at the cost of Bruce's wellbeing.

He sighed, running a hand through his raven hair in frustration. It was going to be a long night.

By the time that Barbara finally made it home, it was just passed midnight. She caught sight of the mirror to her left and reached a finger up to the corner of her eye to note the long, purple bags handing sullenly underneath. She let out a long, whispering sigh and locked the door behind her.

"It's a bit late, isn't it?" Barbara nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice, but quickly relaxed when she recognized it.

"Checking up on me again, Dad?" She smiled though, and stepped forward to place a kiss on his cheek as he stood to greet her. "You know I moved out for a reason, right?"

"Ouch" He said half-heartedly. "Can't an old man check up on his daughter every once in a while?" His voice was just the mix of gruff and subdued that said he'd just gotten off from a long shift, that he had probably gotten here only a few minutes before she had. "Jesus, Barb, you look like you haven't slept in days!"

His hands landed evenly on her shoulders, gripping firmly but gently. She smiled sweetly, bracing herself on his arms – she _was_ tired.

"I know Dad. But I've got good news." She tugged on his hand, pulling him to sit on the couch with her. "Do you remember that kid that got adopted by Bruce Wayne? Dick's kid brother? The one that we went shopping with that one year before Christmas?"

"You mean the one that…" He trailed off, "The name was Jason Todd, right?"

She nodded. "The very one."

"Yeah, I remember him. Bit of a trouble maker, but he had a good heart."

"We, uh, we found him yesterday." She looked up at the clock over he father's shoulder for a moment. "Two days ago, now."

Jim Gordon's eyes narrowed suspiciously, already preparing for a case. "What do you mean 'found' him?"

"He's… I don't know exactly how to explain it, but he's alive."

Now, her father's eyebrows went up, almost to his hairline comically.

"I found him in one of the pods those aliens left behind, he was in pretty bad shape, but he was _alive_ , Dad."

Jim Gordon was silent for a long moment, digesting this information. Then, when he spoke, it was in a voice full of suspicion. "Does Wayne know yet?"

She nodded. "And before you ask, I ran all the tests myself. The kid checks out. He hasn't aged a day in almost a year, he looks exactly like he did when… when…" She trailed off, her mind triggering images of the coffin, of Bruce's face, of the silence that had filled Wayne Manor in the months that followed.

Her father drew her in, holding her tightly the same as he had since she was a little girl who'd needed him. It was only after her cheek made contact with his shoulder that she realized she'd been crying. "I just can't believe it, Dad. It's him. It's really him."

"It's ok, sweetheart." Jim swallowed thickly, twitching awkwardly when the whiskers of his mustache caught on her bright red hair. "It's Gotham, after all. Stranger things have happened."

She laughed, full and genuine, tugging a loose strand down. "Yeah, I guess you're right about that."

Slowly, they pulled away, though her father's hands remained on her shoulders. She took a shaky breath. "I just never thought… Things are going to be really hard on him, y'know? He's going to have to deal with the fact that things have changed, people changed."

Jim bowed his head, unwilling for the moment to face her glittering blue eyes. "Now, I can't begin to imagine the kind of pain a parent feels when their child…" He can't even drag the words past his lips, but his hands clench on her shoulders. "To get him back, after all this time? It's a damn miracle. I don't envy Wayne in dealing with the fallout, but he's got his son back. That's something to be cherished."

"I know, Dad. I'm happy, really, I am, he was like a little brother to me. I just don't want him to feel any more pain."

He smiled at her, wiping a tear away as it fell. "You've got a big heart, Barbara. You just need to trust that everything will be okay in the end."

"I don't say it enough, but…" She beamed at him, and there were more unshed tears in her eyes. "I love you."

"Love you too, Barb."

 **A/N: So, several people have pointed out that it is not Damian in the new season 3 of YJ, and yeah y'all are right, I just want it to be true so badly (excuse me while I go ugly cry). Also, as for the ages, they need to be clarified. In the YJ verse, the official ages for everyone should be: Dick 19, Jason 16-17, and Tim 13-14. (Thank you so much to the reviewer who pointed that out). But, I'm kind of screwing with the ages here since Jason has technically been dead for a year or so, so hasn't really aged except in the past month he's been alive. So, technically he's 17, but for the purposes of this story he is going to be 15 still. If you have any questions about the timeline, please let me know!**


	6. If You Sink

**Erg. Short chapter is short. Sorry for the late update, everyone. I just got a new job and I'm working full time so it's been rough. Hopefully I'll be able to finish up with All in the Blood by Tuesday, but we'll see how big of a monster my writer's block turns out to be. Next chapter shall include Dick and Alfie! Happy reading.**

 **Chapter 6: If You Sink**

Since the first moment he'd seen Jason's shimmering green-blue eyes, open and _alive_ after more than a year, his mind had been awash with fear and grief. The boy's head was a solid weight against Bruce' shoulder, as Jason coughed and struggled for breath even as he slept. Bruce's throat tightened at the thought of this same child, this same comfortable weight, and the last time he had held his son. Jason flinched in his sleep, murmuring a soft plea and Bruce tightened his grip on the child even as bile rose in the back of his mouth. Bruce honestly felt like he was drowning, like there was some unseen deluge just waiting to crash into him and carry him away.

His son had risen from the grave. No, that wasn't quite right. His son had _clawed_ his way out, a much slower and more torturous experience than the one implied by simply waking or rising. Bruce kept expecting this to be a nightmare of some sort. To have his son back safe and sound was one thing, but it was an entirely different matter to know that his child had suffered immeasurably for who knew how long. Jason hadn't been awake or coherent long enough to answer questions. He was only able to feel panic and fear, trapped in the hell of Bruce's own making.

Because Bruce had no reservations about this. He knew he had caused all of this. His soldier, his son, his fault _._ It was Bruce's sin to carry, even now. He recalled the boy's words, just as he had calmed enough to speak, asking "stay?" like Jason fully expected Bruce to abandon him here. It wouldn't happen. Couldn't. Not again.

Bruce was too emotionally exhausted to do much more than this, just holding his son's battered and bruised, but _alive_ body.

Black Canary had dropped by earlier, hoping to speak with Jason, to offer assistance in repairing some of the psychological damage that was sure to be present. But Bruce had sent her away, stating the gruff, rehearsed "this is family business," before slamming the door in her face. He'd gotten a call from Ollie not long afterward, which he had pointedly ignored.

But this _was_ family business. The other heroes had no right to witness this. To see Jason at his weakest. To see Bruce at his weakest. And Jason had called him 'Dad' like it was the only name he'd ever used for Bruce, even though he'd only ever used it in times of overwhelming distress or pain or sickness. Now, this situation offered an appalling combination of all three. Jason's fever was still high enough to need constant monitoring, his bruises were still a macabre shade of purple and yellow, and the boy still whimpered in his sleep about a sadistic clown and a crowbar. It was times like these that he wished he were wearing the cape and cowl. At least then, he could feel useful, like he could still wrap Jason up in his cape and assure him that everything would be alright, like no time had passed at all.

But Jason wasn't afraid of Bruce Wayne. He was Afraid of Batman.

He couldn't say exactly why, but it didn't seem to matter. He wouldn't don the colors until he knew Jason was out of harm's way. Safe.

"B?" The voice was impossibly small, throaty.

Bruce leaned forward to touch a kiss to the boy's forehead. "I'm here, Jason," he whispered.

The boy shivered violently under the covers, reaching a bandaged hand across the space between them, touching first Bruce's shoulder, then his neck, feather light. "Really here?" He asked, sounding confused as though Bruce really shouldn'thave been there.

"Really, Jay."

"'m I dead?" His eyes screwed up and his hand gripped Bruce's shirt in agitation.

"No," he said quietly, his heart soaring at the idea. _Alive,_ he thought, blessedly. He carded his fingers through the child's hair, reveling in the feeling, knowing that this was real. "You're here. I'm here. This is real."

Jason seemed to digest that, letting his eyes drift closed and even out, though the furrow in his brow never left. "'s good. D'n't wanna to wake up in…" He trailed off, shivering against an unseen presence.

"You're _here_ ," Bruce emphasized. " _I'm_ here."

Jason smiled at that, a crooked, broken little thing, but a smile nonetheless. It made Bruce's heart tumble awkwardly in his chest to see it again after so long.

"Can't get…" Jason paused, seeming to think of the words and their order before finally saying, "laughter out."

Laughter. The Joker. Bruce's stomach roiled in protest to the thought. Here, safe in his father's arms, the last thing that Jason should be thinking about was his murderer. But that was how trauma worked. Even if you surrounded it with peace and love and support, destructive thoughts could still rule. He bent his forehead to touch his son's, let the child shake and shiver against him. Feeling unsure of himself, and never having much of a knack for words in any case, Bruce began slowly rocking the boy. From the way that Jason burrowed close, leaning into his father, Bruce could tell he'd made the right call.

It was a while before either of them spoke, but the drowsy setting couldn't quite quell the demons inside of Jason.

"Sheila?" He asked, still trembling lightly.

Bruce closed his eyes. "She's gone, son."

There was a momentary cessation of every noise in the room as he seemed to consider that. "She … Tricked me," he said, finally. "hel' a gun on me. Should have – Shoul' have seen through it. Couldn't think."

Bruce grimaced, lifting his head from its bowed position. He knew his expression must be horrified, but Jason only blinked up at him slowly, like he was already drifting back to unconsciousness after dropping this bombshell.

"Tried to save…" Jason coughed roughly, his eyes watering at the motion.

"shhh, lad." Bruce hushed, his voice not sounding anything like it should. "I know you did."

But Jason was coughing again, trying to lean away from him in what could be either discomfort or shame, Bruce didn't know. When he reached for Jason, the boy warded him off with a shaky hand.

"Need to tell you," He rasped. "Didn' mean to… break promise." The words were slurred and heavy with sleep and Jason was fading fast, but the meaning of the words came across loud and clear. Did he really think that after all this time, Bruce was disappointed in him? Was that really still so important to him? Had Bruce made it that important?

"Oh, Jay. I know." After a moment, he added, "I know and I – I was – I _am_ so proud of you."

At that, Jason's eyes shot open, staring at Bruce in open disbelief. Then, he smiled sadly, laying back against the pillows and allowing Bruce to rest a gentle hand on his forehead.

"So, so proud," Bruce repeated, truly meaning it.

Jason closed his eyes, leaning into the hand resting on his forehead. For a long time, they were still. Jason taking in slow, shallow breaths. Bruce, timing each one and waiting fearfully for the next. "Love you, Dad."

Bruce smiled, taking hold of the boy's bandaged hand. "I love you too, son."


	7. You'll Swim

**A/N: Uhhh… hi there. Not sure if anyone is still following this story, but I'm alive! I posted this chapter a little while ago on Archive and just realized I neglected to post it here as well. Just a little update with some father-son bonding (well, more like commiserating, but you know what I mean).**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Chapter 7: You'll Swim**

"He said that? Really?" Dick asked, staring as the headstone was demolished piece by piece.

Bruce hummed mournfully beside him, kicking a fragment of Sheila Haywood's headstone back into the pit where her coffin was being unceremoniously removed. "When he's stronger, he'll want to come here, to see his…" He tripped on the word, but Dick followed easily enough and wasn't one for keeping a fish on the line.

"Yeah. He'll want to know he wasn't buried next to the woman who got him killed." The words were sharp in the morning air, gloomy for all that the sun was shining so brightly overhead.

"If I'd known, if I'd even considered that maybe he didn't just run off recklessly…"

"We all assumed the worst, Bruce." Dick lifted a hand, set it gently on his mentor's shoulder. He didn't mention how sick it made him feel to admit the words, to say out loud the things that had haunted him for months. Because he _had_ assumed the worst. He'd told his friends, he'd cried to Wally about how his reckless kid brother had gone off and gotten himself killed, how if only Bruce had trained Jason better, if only, if only, if only…

Dick shook his head, trying not to let his mind linger on the memory of his friend. But, God, did he miss Wally. Staring at the gravesite before him, he was filled with sorrow and regret. Not for Jason, not for the brother he'd never taken the time to get to know, but for his _real_ brother – and _God_ was that a harsh thought. Wally had been his closest friend and confidant since childhood, and he wished – he wished…

"Are you going to get that?" Bruce asked, shaking Dick out of his thoughts and rolling his shoulder when he didn't move.

His phone was vibrating.

It was weird, Dick was so used to not having the damn thing, form-fitting Kevlar and all. But when he brought the device out he nearly dropped it. He nearly dropped it again in his hurry to answer it. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." The voice was choked with emotion, but quiet like Artemis thought he wouldn't pick up on the fact that she'd been crying.

"Artemis, can I…"

"No. You may not."

"All right."

The silence on the phone stretched out and Dick watched as Bruce moved off to speak to the workmen as they continued the excavation.

"Look, I just wanted to let you know that the funeral has been set for next week." She hesitated, and it seemed strange – Artemis, who was never still, always moving, even just to twiddle her thumbs behind her back. But maybe part of that had always been Wally's energy, rubbing off on her. He'd had that effect on people. "There's… There's no body, so…" There was a ragged gasp over the phone. "I know you loved him like a brother. You should be there for the…"

There was a pregnant pause and Dick didn't have the energy to respond at the moment.

"You should be there. I'll send you the details."

"Artemis, I can –"

The line went dead, and Dick lowered the phone back into his pocket. The grief settled into his bones like a weight and it was all he could do to remain upright. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty, warm air. And Goddamn the day didn't deserve to be this bright and sunny, with the birds celebrating their continued survival with jovial songs and light hop-hops in the trees above. The headstone was all but demolished now, broken down into tiny pieces scattered in the red dirt that Gotham was infamous for. People liked to say that the blood of innocents had leached into the soil long ago, draining the very ground itself of its natural lighter hues.

He glanced up and saw Bruce approaching from across the gravesite.

If there were one thing that Dick could be certain of it was the emotional ineptitude of Bruce Wayne. He'd always been a physical person, much better at displays of affection than affection itself. Still, he'd always been steady as a mountain, a constant source of strength for anyone who needed it. Now, Bruce gripped his shoulder and dragged him close.

"I…" Bruce struggled for a moment, pulling back to look Dick in the eye. "You know I'm not good with words, but… it was his choice. Wally knew what was happening. You couldn't have stopped him."

Dick knew all of those things, knew them deep inside. That didn't take the pain away or lessen the grief, but it didn't hurt to hear the words aloud either. So, he says all that he can say. "I know."

Bruce looks away, sighing deeply. "I have to get back to Jason, but I want you to take some time. Maybe go visit Artemis."

Dick shook his head, eyes downcast and sullen. "She doesn't want me near her right now."

There was a knowing glint in Bruce's eye and Dick can't help but remember the night that they'd fought about Jason, the night that Bruce had drank his weight in alcohol and Alfred had been left to pick up the pieces. "She may not want to hear it right now, she may not even be able to hear it, but you need to tell her. You have to be there, to let her know that you're still around. She'll need that support, even if she'll never say the words aloud."

Dick nods, turning to get back in the car and drive to Star City. It isn't until much later that Dick realizes Bruce had been rubbing absently at the scar on his hand where the cut from a bottle of liquor had slashed the skin.


End file.
